The apartment feels too quiet without the others. Margo left an hour ago to coordinate with the centaurs in Fillory, Penny and Julia are monitoring magical fluctuations across the multiverse, and Alice is buried in Library archives. Only you and Peace remain.

You sit on the couch, the infant sleeping soundly in the crook of your arm. Her tiny fist curls around your finger, and you can't help but stare at her face—the curve of her cheek, the shape of her eyes. So much of him is there in miniature.

A sudden draft stirs the curtains despite the closed windows. The air crackles with magic, faint but unmistakable. Peace stirs, making a soft sound in her sleep.

Then you feel it—a faint tingle at the base of your spine, like static electricity. A memory flashes unbidden: Quentin laughing as you both stumbled through a spell in the Brakebills Physical Kids' cottage. His hand brushing yours as you reached for the same spell book.

The room grows warmer. On the coffee table, a glass of water shimmers, tiny bubbles forming on its surface. A single drop rises up, suspended in midair, then bursts into a shower of microscopic droplets that hang frozen in time.

Magic. His magic. You'd recognize it anywhere, even fragmented and faint.

Peace's eyes flutter open. She gurgles happily, reaching toward the floating droplets with her free hand. As her tiny fingers pass through them, they don't disperse—instead, they seem to cling to her skin like dew.

Your heart pounds in your chest. This could be it. After months of emptiness, of not even being able to speak his name...